The Train to Gretna Green
by Carson Dyle
Summary: In 1851, 18-year-old Bella Swan flees her pleasant home and doting parents in favor of romance and a grown-up life with the man of her dreams. The advent of Britain's railway system makes escape easy for her. Or does it?


**Age of Edward Contest**

**Carson Dyle**

**The Train to Gretna Green**

**England, circa 1850**

"Which would you choose, Collie?"

"Oh, miss, I could never pick. Both's so pretty."

The two girls – one dressed in the latest fashion, the other in a frock more admired several seasons ago – considered the ribbons, carefully culled from a daunting array after much consideration.

"Then we shall purchase them both. The yellow's best for my new bonnet, and you shall have the pink."

For all her petite stature, the first girl wielded authority with an easy manner, her shiny dark curls (much the same color as her eyes), bouncing in agreement.

Her companion – though taller – faded in comparison, an impression rendered by both her chalky complexion and straw-colored hair, as well as an attitude of deference.

"I couldn't," she said. "I've not enough-"

"It's a gift, silly," the other insisted. "To thank you for coming out with me today. You know, Mama won't let me go anywhere unchaperoned. Now this should be enough for the purchase and a sweet besides. Afterwards you can find your own way home, I'm certain."

"But what about you, miss?"

"Have you forgotten the clothes we promised for the poor?" the other said, picking up the carpet bag that until now had been in Collie's charge. "I promised the vicar I'd help sort the donations. Who knows how long it may take? Mrs. Bainbridge will be needing you."

"Oh, I don't know." Collie's pale blue eyes seemed suddenly enormous. "The mistress said we was to stay together."

"Yes, and I'm so sorry about that. I honestly don't think Mama notices how grownup you are. What is your age now, Collie?"

"Sixteen next month."

"You see? Quite old enough to shop in the village by yourself. I don't know what she's thinking sometimes – as if you were a child. But we'll prove to her you're a capable young woman now!"

With that the dark-haired girl smiled prettily and hurried out of the shop. Her footsteps did in fact take her in the direction of the vicarage, lest some nosy neighbor be watching, but once out of sight, veered determinedly toward the little depot that was the town's new pride and joy.

She congratulated herself on the perfect timing that saw the train steaming toward the platform mere seconds later. Ticket in hand, she boarded with a sense of exhilaration foreign to her, the promise of adventure and a new life designed solely by her own hand.

Fearful of discovery at the last crucial moment, she peered carefully round the edge of the window, but no one was running to the platform, shaking a fist or shouting. Nevertheless, she did not release her breath until the great engine inched forward, and the village began to fall away in the distance.

Freedom!

No more parents treating her like a child, although she was two full years older than the hapless Collie. She closed her eyes and made a wish that the girl would linger at the bakery, perhaps meet a friend to talk to for a while, and return to Loewing just in time to help with dinner. With luck she'd be too busy to ask if her young mistress was back.

Every clack of the wheels, every toot of the whistle took her farther from childhood and closer to a new life as a married woman. Closer to James.

At the thought of him, she grew dreamy, resting her head against the high seat, trying to picture him in her mind. So handsome and so attentive when they'd met last autumn in Bristol. There had been a hundred officers billeted there and it seemed an equal number of young women vying for their attention.

But James had never wavered, saving his compliments only for her, writing his name in her dance card at the assembly hall, far more often than was strictly proper. Every moment they spent together was duly supervised. They had followed all the rules, but at the end of the summer, the understanding she was sure would be forged between James and her father, had not come to pass.

"But he's a soldier, Papa, just like you. How can you possibly object to my becoming a soldier's wife when you insisted my mother do so?"

His reasons, a tiresome number of them, buzzed around her head like gnats. Little was known about his family, she was too young, his soldier's pay was not enough to keep a wife, they hardly knew one another.

On and on it went. She stopped listening, but once home, she wrote to James and he to her, though the letters were addressed to the housemaid, Colleen, who'd been persuaded to claim him as her cousin.

And now she sat, alone, independent on a shiny new train, speeding toward the future, at her feet a bag containing the very nicest treasures from her hope chest, clothes becoming to a blushing bride.

If only they didn't stop so often, calling at every village along the way, each proud to be a part of the thriving new rail system. She was prepared for a long journey north (James had written that it would take all night), but she wished she had a better understanding of how long it might take someone to catch up with her.

Hopefully, the family would have gathered for dinner before discovering her absence. They would need time to question Collie and then to search the grounds, inquire in the village. She was fairly certain no one had seen her board the train, but in due time the possibility would occur to them.

Would her father give chase, or would he finally see that she was quite serious in her determination to marry, and accept that she was a woman now?

Surely, Mama and Papa had read _Romeo and Juliet. _Shakespeare made it quite clear that parents meddling in their grown children's lives could cause untold agony. Not that she was as silly as Juliet, but they did share a certain fated love that one was powerless to struggle against, whatever the obstacles.

She sighed deeply, admiring her own strength of character, and as dusk fell began to nod, adjusting without conscious thought to the rocking and stopping and starting of the train. The excitement of the day faded into darkness.

When she awoke, it was to discover that the world outside the window was in darkness now as well, and worse, she was no longer alone in the compartment.

A man had boarded sometime while she was sleeping, and was himself now asleep, a battered soft-crowned hat obscuring his face. His sack coat, too, was rumpled, dusty. There was mud on his boots.

Certainly such a man was not carrying a first-class ticket. He had crept in unnoticed to take a gentleman's seat when he clearly belonged in the open car behind the engine. She waited indignantly for someone to come down the passage, someone to whom she could point out the interloper, but no one appeared.

She did not dare to think what might happen if he woke to find himself alone with a defenseless young woman. But, of course, he had chosen this compartment for that very reason!

A frisson of fear raced down her spine and was quickly dismissed. This was the first test of her newfound independence. She must – and would – rise to the challenge on her own.

Stealthily she picked up the carpet bag and slid it down the seat toward the passage. When the man didn't stir, she stood, gathering her voluminous skirts as closely as possible around her, and considered how she was going to get past his long legs, which were inconsiderately extended across the compartment.

There was nothing for it but to try and step over them, but as she lifted one foot, it became clear that was impossible unless she hitched her skirts up to the waist, and what if he should awaken then?

Frustrated, she resumed her seat. Surely, someone would come along soon. Or they'd pull into another station where she could signal through the window for assistance, but the train clattered on. Patience was not a virtue she practiced easily. Few minutes had passed before the inaction seemed unbearable.

Perhaps she should just wake him, and in his brief seconds of passing into consciousness, make a hasty exit. But what if he seized her? How quickly could those hands, lying loosely now in his lap, spring to life? Was there a weapon secreted about his person? If he lunged at her with a knife, she would scream.

It was all well and good to have a plan, but the best solution would be one that did not call attention to herself. As he showed no sign of stirring, she decided that he was probably a drunkard who had stumbled into a section of the train meant for his betters. If that was the case, she might easily elude him.

Restless, she stood again and reached out for her bag, pulling it silently toward her. At the very least, she could secure her few belongings, lest he spring up and carry them off into the night. Moving slowly and carefully, she placed it between her left foot and the wall, concealing it carefully with her skirts.

"You find it difficult to sleep on trains."

The voice was so close, she nearly cried out in startlement. Close and decidedly sober. Indeed, anyone passing might have thought the two of them were in the midst of congenial discourse.

"I find it soothing myself, but then I do it frequently."

He was peering up at her now from beneath the hat. Blue eyes, unclouded by demon rum or – truth be told – even the remnants of sleep. Younger than she would have guessed, but unshaven with an unruly shock of hair escaping the unfortunate hat.

"I trust these frequent journeys are confined to the third-class accommodations," she said coldly. How dare he address her as if they were equals traveling together?

"I do find it difficult to sleep standing up, so no. And then the coal dust flying back from the locomotive – very hard on one's clothes."

Was he trying to be humorous? She didn't want to look at him to make that determination and instead turned to gaze out the window, as if he wasn't there.

"Lovely, isn't it, this time of year – the leaves, such a vibrant shade of green."

If he thought she was going to discuss the foliage with a total stranger, he was quite mistaken, she thought, continuing her indifferent pose until she realized that the only thing visible in the darkness was her own reflection in the glass.

He was ridiculing her.

"Perhaps you're unaware," she said, turning on him a withering glance, "that speaking to unchaperoned young ladies is not acceptable in first class."

"My apologies. Had I known, I would have brought one with me – a chaperone, that is."

It was a mistake to look at him, for his eyes were twinkling, and he was clearly suppressing a smile, deliberately mocking her. The realization brought a rush of warmth to her cheeks that no doubt pleased him, insolent as he was.

"I will endeavor to make myself clear," she said, infusing her voice with contempt. "I do not wish to converse with strangers."

"Very wise," he said agreeably. "My name is Edward. Edward Masen."

It was foolish to respond, she admonished herself, but what was there to do apart from pretending to gaze out the window again?

Ignoring him completely, she bent to open the bag at her feet, careful to conceal its contents with her skirts. A moment's search revealed the small leather prayer book she intended to carry at the marriage ceremony. She placed it on her lap and opened it, leaving to luck which passage met her eyes, hoping it might be one rife with divine inspiration on fortitude.

"May I inquire, why you didn't bring one?"

"No, you may not," she snapped, before she could stop herself, and redoubled her efforts to concentrate on the holy words. It was a difficult task, so aware was she of the other's presence. He seemed to absorb more than his allotted amount of space, his silence nearly as irritating as his speech.

What was he going on about? Finally, she could bear it no longer. "One what?" she demanded.

"Chaperone. It's not often one meets a young girl journeying by train, unattended."

"I'll have you know, I'm traveling to meet my husband." There, that needed saying. She was not to be treated as a child on this, her ultimate foray into adulthood.

"A husband, but no wedding band," he mused aloud.

"I shall soon be in possession of both," she assured him. "And it might behoove you to know that my fiancé is a gentleman and a soldier, who will doubtless take umbrage at my being accosted."

"You intend for us to meet then?" he said, tilting his head in the manner of a curious dog.

"For your sake, I hope not."

"Ah, well it's good to know you have my best interests at heart."

The man was infernally dense, even for a member of the less educated classes. "My point was that he has fought duels – two of them – so you'd best beware."

"Did he win or lose?"

"He won, of course."

"Pistols or rapiers?"

"One of each. He's a very skillful fighter."

"And apparently a bit quick-tempered. I'll wager he's lost patience with you a few times."

"Me? Why ever should he?"

"Because you're a very combative young woman. I wonder that he can have a pleasant conversation with you at all."

"It's hardly your place to wonder at anything concerning me," she said with a cold glance, and turned her attention back to the book in her lap.

"You're right," he agreed, "though in the absence of your future husband, I might dare to ponder what sort of man allows his bride to travel alone through half of England, subject to the intrusions of any disreputable inferior who cares to make them."

She opened her mouth to argue, but had trouble finding words that would express her side of the argument. Truth be told, she felt a very unladylike urge to slap this annoying person and be done with it.

The train was slowing. Outside a few scattered lights indicated a village.

At last.

A chance that someone would board this carriage or even disembark, so that she could pound on the window, calling attention to her dilemma.

In any case, her tormenter would scarcely try to hinder her if she moved to another carriage, not when passengers might be milling about. She slipped the prayer book back in her bag, prepared to flee, when he abruptly rose.

"This is my stop," he announced.

Indeed? Somehow she'd expected a protracted battle, and he was already abandoning the field?

"Don't look so surprised. It's yours too."

Before his words had sunk in, he'd seized her bag and headed for the door. Instantly, she recovered her wits, hurrying after him, shouting, "Stop, thief!" like a character in a pantomime.

He was already on the platform, his face level with hers as she paused on the top step. Her cries for help hadn't flustered him in the least.

"You'd do well to hurry," he advised, offering his hand for assistance. "The train won't stop here long."

"You're a madman, as well as a thief!" she cried, allowing the panic to sound in her voice, for as yet no rescuers had come to her aid.

"As this bag no doubt contains some manner of trousseau, I have little interest in stealing it. I'm simply carrying it for you. Now would you please get down here before you're left on the train with no belongings?"

"I will not! Help!"

His hand closed on her arm. She held onto the doorframe for dear life with the other, kicking out at him ineffectually with soft slippered feet. Only outrage kept her abject fear at bay. He was not going to succeed in abducting her, but she needed that bag!

Her assailant seemed every bit as determined as she, his long fingers seeking a better grip on her arm, when suddenly there was a figure on the platform coming their way.

Rescue at last!

The uniformed man had emerged from the depot, where he must have been watching the struggle. "Here now," he called as he hurried toward them. "What's all the fuss about?"

"This man is attempting to kidnap me!"

"Nonsense. This lady is my cousin. I'm merely trying to prevent her from disgracing our family."

"That is a despicable falsehood! I've never seen him before in all my life!"

"My name is Edward Masen," her would-be abductor told the stationmaster calmly. "This is Miss Isabella Swan of Loewing Manor in Anandale."

"Is that true?" asked the stationmaster, addressing the young woman, but shock had temporarily stolen her voice.

The villainous Masen, meanwhile, had pulled a number of papers from his pocket which he held out for inspection. The first was merely glanced at with a grunt of acknowledgement.

The second, a sheet of yellow paper, the man studied more carefully, shaking his head. "Angels weep at what young people get up to these days," he mumbled, before looking at the third paper.

"Yes, I see. I'll take care of it right away," he promised, returning the documents to their owner before fixing the girl with a critical stare.

"You are Miss Swan?" Ever vigilant in his duty, he waited for confirmation.

"Well . . . yes, but . . ."

With a wave of his hand the uniformed man turned back to the station, leaving her too flustered to continue, or to resist the gentle tug on her arm.

She stepped down onto the platform, standing there dazed for a moment, as the engine whistled, and her means to join her beloved slipped slowly away in the darkness.

"Who are you?" she demanded when the command of speech returned.

"I told you. Truthfully, your father's quite right. You don't listen. Are you really so confident of your own superiority at the tender age of eighteen?"

"I'm confident that I have no cousins of such a slovenly and brutish nature as you. How dare you insinuate such a connection?"

His dark brows shot up. "This is the source of your outrage? The prospect of less fashionable relations invading your family tree?"

"Less honorable, you mean," she fairly spat at him. "You lied."

"I embellished," he corrected, "and if that's your chief concern, then you won't mind my continuing with this abduction as planned." He took a firm grip on her elbow, steering her back across the railroad tracks toward the only lighted building in sight. "If it's deceit you find so objectionable, perhaps you could explain why you stole away from your parents' home under false pretenses, leaving them terrified for your safety."

"Clearly, they had reason to be, as I've been captured by a lunatic," she retorted. In her head, she was frantically trying to put the pieces together. How did he know so much? What possible connection could he have to her family?

"Your captivity is only temporary, I assure you. I've advised your father to hold off till tomorrow. There's no point in exhausting his poor horse to get to you in the middle of the night. You'll be just as guilty in the morning."

_No!_

Her father alerted? Her union with James thwarted? As she stumbled along beside her captor, Bella, tried to regroup. Even if she could escape, where would she go? Indeed, she had no clear idea of where she was.

Whoever this Masen was, he was clearly acting on her family's behalf. How that came about, she couldn't imagine, but of one thing she was certain. He was not a relative. So he'd been paid to find her, and if he could be bought, then perhaps she could conjure a way to swing his allegiance.

After all, she had till morning.

The lighted building loomed larger now. Two stories with many bright windows, particularly on the ground floor.

An inn.

Hopefully some of the people gathered there would be of a less dastardly nature than her companion.

Bella began to feel resolved again. One way or another, she'd manage to resume her journey. How anxious James would be when she wasn't on the awaited train! If only she could get a message to him.

Perhaps an appeal to Masen's cleverness could get her the information she required. "I don't understand. How did you intercept me? If my father had ridden to where you boarded, why didn't he confront me himself?"

"Your father never left Anandale."

"Then he dispatched a messenger?"

Masen had the audacity to roll his eyes at her. "Do join us in the 19th century, Miss Swan. Surely you've heard of the telegraph."

Of course. She'd heard of it, though she'd never seen one. Gossip had it that they were becoming quite common at the new train stations, making it possible to alert others miles down the line of trouble and delays.

So that was it. When they'd discovered she was nowhere to be found, her father must have learned a train had passed through at about the time she went missing. Once he heard where it was headed, he guessed her plan.

Then all that was necessary was to telegraph ahead, to someone who could arrange to board the train and interfere with her true destiny.

"How did you become involved in my family's affairs?" she asked, as civilly as she could.

"Money can buy most anything, Miss Swan, which you'd know if you were as worldly as you pretend."

She bit back a reply. Her only hope was to win him to her side. "Have you never been in love, Mr. Masen?"

"Not long enough to do lasting damage."

"Then you cannot possibly know what it is to meet the one person Fate has fashioned particularly for you."

"I'm not sure I'd recognize such an oddity if I did."

"I dare say. Your cynicism condemns you to a very lonely life."

"Bad as all that?" he said with that same note of amusement she found so irritating.

They had reached the door of the inn, and as it opened, a swell of sounds and smells rushed out into the night. The public room was filled with people drinking and laughing. Very few of them appeared to have any pretensions to quality.

Bella hung back. "Must we?"

"It's this place or standing outside in the dark all night. Are you not hungry?"

In fact, it had been many hours since she'd eaten. "Dine here? In a public house?"

"Not if you don't wish to," he said. "With nothing to do while I eat, you can devote yourself to criticizing my table manners. If you'll excuse me a moment."

He walked off leaving her to stand in the entrance alone, certain that everyone was staring at her, while he exchanged a few words with a person she took to be the innkeeper.

When he returned, he ushered her through a low door and down a few steps into a room he called the snug. She had to admit, it was an improvement. The only other occupants were a pair of respectable looking men smoking near the fireplace.

Masen pulled out her chair, a gesture which she instantly questioned. Was he mocking her again, or did he actually have some nodding acquaintance with propriety?

No sooner were they seated, than steaming bowls of stew and crusty loaves were set before each of them. "Don't try it on my account," Masen said, and proceeded to ignore her in favor of the food.

What an odd concoction, she thought, regarding the chunks of mutton and potato and onion suspiciously, but a tentative taste convinced her she was ravenous, and the humble surroundings were quite forgotten for the duration of the meal.

"So tell me, how am I to recognize the signs if my one true love hoves into view?" Masen had pushed back from the table, crossing one long leg over the other. He was preparing to try her patience again, she was sure, but there was no point in sinking to his level.

"When I met James, I could see that he was easily the most desirable bachelor in the room, the one many a girl would set her cap for."

"So it's a competition then, and you were determined to win?"

"You make it sound like a shoot with James as the poor grouse."

"Clay pigeon more likely," he said with a crooked smile.

Bella found herself blushing again, a most annoying affliction, particularly when it happened for no discernible cause. "It was not a game. He was handsome and charming, the very image of a dashing soldier."

"I see." Masen appeared to be considering her explanation. "Forgive me, but presumably the other young ladies present saw these same impeccable traits. Were they destined to spend a blissful eternity with him as well?"

"Of course not, because it was me he preferred. He said I was beautiful and saucy and–"

"Saucy?" he repeated with an arched brow.

Again the blood rushed to her cheeks. "Yes, and just the sort to make a perfect military wife."

"A wife who sits at home, while her husband travels the world. So that was it, then? Proof of your entwined destinies?"

"Well . . . yes. Two people who choose each other. He writes the most poetic love letters – just to me."

"How do you know?"

"I beg your pardon."

"How do you know he doesn't write love letters to other young ladies as well?"

It was useless trying to win him over. He hadn't a romantic bone in his body. "One must trust," she said haughtily. "What a hollow thing marriage would be without it, and now you've made me violate that trust. I can't think what he'll do when I don't arrive in the morning."

"Probably challenge someone to a duel," Masen guessed.

"You have no reason to accuse James of inconstancy. I suspect you're confusing your own character with his."

"The same could be said of you."

"What, pray tell, does that mean?"

"It means you are prepared to be faithful and trusting. From what you've told me there's scant evidence of his commitment to do the same."

"And you display scant evidence of a sympathetic soul, Mr. Masen."

The accusation lost some of its bite, as Bella stifled a yawn. What an exhausting day it had been! But she couldn't give up. "I don't know what my father's paying you to ruin my life, but suppose I could offer more? Would you consider changing your allegiance?"

His smile turned into a laugh, easy and unrestrained.

"I do not appreciate being laughed at, Mr. Masen."

"Forgive me," he said, still giving an impression of sparkling eyes and teeth that was most unsettling. "I've never been offered such a proposition by a refined young woman. Do you actually have any money?"

Bella fought the flush rising in her cheeks again, as well as another yawn. Weariness was compromising her wits. "I only wonder at how deep your perfidy goes, whether you harbor any scruples at all."

"You question my scruples, when it's you offering the bribe?" He shook his head, still grinning. "No doubt, your fiancé would offer any amount of money to ensure your arrival. Perhaps you should contact him."

"I'll do no such thing."

"And why is that? If he's so eager to be your husband, he shouldn't mind. Or do you doubt that he'd think it a worthwhile investment?"

"You're despicable," Bella said, aware that this was hardly a cogent argument. "I don't wish to discuss my personal life with you any further."

"Very well. Our room should be ready by now."

"Our room?" The words came out so loudly that the two gentlemen in the corner turned to look at them.

"You've had a trying day," Masen said with every appearance of sympathy. "Your father won't be here for hours yet. I suggest you get some rest."

"In a room – with you?" Bella hissed. "You who pretend concern for a lady's reputation?" She was so frightfully weary suddenly, but rest would be on her own terms. "I shall take my own room, thank you."

"No, you won't," Masen said rising. "My orders were not to let you out of my sight until your poor beleaguered father took custody, and that's what I intend to do."

He came round to help her from her chair, grasping her firmly by the arm and turning toward the door.

She had only strength enough left for verbal resistance. "My father would never approve my sharing a bedchamber with a gentleman, much less a hired ruffian."

"Well, you can ask him which of us is correct when he arrives. For now, I'm in charge, and you needn't worry. I have no wish to make advances to another man's intended. You'll be perfectly safe."

He signaled a chambermaid as they emerged from the snug who led them up the staircase to a room on the first floor. It appeared clean, if Spartan, containing only a bed with no canopy or draperies, a single chair and a small dresser with pitcher and bowl. Masen locked the door behind them, slipping the key into his pocket.

Bella removed her bonnet and cape, placing them carefully on a hook jutting from the unadorned wall, and stood stubbornly in the middle of the room, hands folded demurely before her.

Masen removed his coat, placing it on the back of the chair, behind which he wedged her carpetbag. He sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him, only then thinking to remove his hat.

An untamed mass of thick coppery hair sprang into view. He folded his arms, sighing as if with pleasure at such comfort and smiled at her. "Aren't you going to lie down?"

"Certainly not." If only he'd close his eyes and fall asleep. It should be easy to take the key from his pocket then, though retrieving her bag promised to be more difficult.

Perhaps she could find a place to hide until tomorrow's train arrived, but, of course, Masen would stalk the platform, knowing that was her plan. Would there be time enough to escape and make her way to the next town on the rail line? Not the one ahead, but the one behind. He'd never expect her to go backwards.

It was becoming harder and harder not to sway under his steady gaze. She was so desperately tired. Perhaps, once he fell asleep, she could steal a quick nap, just to refresh herself before taking flight.

"You may extinguish the lamp if it will help you relax," he said.

To be plunged into total darkness with her persecutor? Bella did not dignify the suggestion with a response, but at least he'd closed his eyes. She held her stance for a few more minutes, growing faintly dizzy with fatigue.

Was he really asleep or only pretending? Somehow she suspected if he was feigning, he would gild his performance with a counterfeit snore, if only to annoy her, but in any case, she simply couldn't stand there any longer.

Still watching Masen's face, she crept to the bed and stretched out on her back, hands stiffly at her sides. Merely, a minute or two of rest should suffice, but the mattress was so hard and uncomfortable, she doubted she could manage even that.

The next thing to enter her awareness was a sharp knock on the door. She shot to a sitting position to find the room filled with morning light and Masen speaking with the chambermaid.

"There's a gentleman to see you, sir, downstairs."

"I'll be right there, thank you."

To see _him, _not his own daughter? Even in this moment of realizing all was lost, she found her father's priority slightly insulting.

"Take a moment to tidy yourself," Masen said bluntly without even looking her way, and he was gone, taking her carpetbag with him.

Bella sprang up and rushed to the small wavy mirror above the dresser. Her bun had come undone in the night, although the sausage curls at her ears still looked quite pert.

She completed a hasty toilet, donned her bonnet and cape and went forth to meet her punishment, head held high.

Her father stood at the foot of the staircase, his expression rigid. "We will talk in the carriage, Isabella" he said brusquely, not even bending to kiss her cheek.

"Of course, papa."

There was little point in playing the rebel now. She must bear the results of her abortive plan, until she'd had time to think of a new one. "Where's Masen?" she asked, deliberately referring to him as one would a servant.

"Putting as many miles between himself and you as possible, I should imagine," her father grumbled.

He was, she noticed, carrying her bag filled with guilty secrets. With a heavy heart she followed him to the waiting carriage.

In retrospect, the journey to get here seemed much shorter than the trip home, despite the numerous stops the train had made. Listening to her father's recital of her transgressions and near transgressions, his disappointment in her, the worry she'd caused her mother, all made the time stretch out most vexingly.

When at last he exhausted his supply of complaints, she jumped in with a list of her own regarding the uncouth character he'd chosen to intercept her.

At home, her mother alternately kissed and cried over her and scolded her for bringing the family to the brink of scandal.

At last, Bella escaped to her room, while her parents retired to take tea in her father's study.

"Oh, Charles, she was so nearly ruined!"

"There, there, my dear. It's all sorted now and no one the wiser."

"I can't think what would cause Isabella to act so impulsively."

"Can you not?" Her husband smiled indulgently.

"Really, Charles. You always tease me so. She owes her cleverness to you and her free spirit to me – I've heard it before, and I dare say it's true, but really I never did anything so imprudent when I was her age. You know I never."

"I do, and I'm afraid her delight in outsmarting us played just as much a part in the debacle as her headstrong nature, but it's over. We must simply keep a tighter rein in the future."

"We owe a great debt of gratitude to your Mr. Masen."

"Yes, jolly lucky he was in a position to help. Best young captain I ever had under my command."

"I've often heard you say so," his wife commented as she deftly poured their tea. "I wonder that he didn't remain in the military."

Charles Swan sat back in his favorite easy chair, pleased with a crisis averted, a warm cup of tea in his hand and his charming wife by his side. "He told me he preferred employment that required thinking, a skill largely discouraged in the military unless one aspires to high command, and that didn't interest him.

"When the rail lines sprang up so quickly, no one was prepared for the problems, the variety of crimes that arose along with them. Identifying and investigating those was a perfect challenge for his abilities."

"He sounds like a remarkable young man."

"And a trustworthy one. I've asked him to look further into this James person, and he's assured me he will do so immediately."

"What if he finds nothing against his character? I fear Isabella will only persist in this foolishness."

"I don't expect that to happen. No man of good character conspires to lure a proper young lady to Gretna Green against the express wishes of her family. There's something there, I'll be bound."

"Then we are most fortunate to have such an ally."

"Yes, I was always fond of Edward. He'll make someone a damned fine son-in-law."

"Well, tell me, what did Isabella say about him?"

"The words I recall were overbearing, slovenly, opinionated, unsympathetic, frivolous, argumentative, arrogant, annoying and rude, but I'm sure I've forgotten a few. No, Rennie, it's no good setting your hopes in that direction."

"But, darling, that's wonderful!"

"It is?"

"Of course. She never used nearly so many words to describe the wretched James!"

"But, my dear, they're all derogatory!"

"Oh, Charles, you do amuse me sometimes," his wife said, kissing his cheek and humming a little tune as she flitted from the room, leaving him to ponder his own lack of cleverness where women were concerned.

Bella spent the following days almost entirely in her bedchamber, venturing out only to check with Collie as to whether the post had brought any word from James. She had apologized profusely to her ally, expressing her sincere hope that the girl hadn't gotten into trouble.

"Oh, no, miss. Everyone said as it was likely you that led me astray," came the cheerful reply.

For the first time, she wondered what the servants really thought of her, what they knew about her misadventure and whether they judged her for it.

A week had passed when Colonel Swan called her into his study. "Sit down please, daughter. There's something you need to hear. I've made a few inquiries with Major Berwin, which I should have done some time ago, but I had no presentiment that you would carry your infatuation with this James to such extremes. What's happened to your good sense, girl?"

"You judge him unfairly, Papa," she said, as respectfully as she could manage.

"Do I? Were you aware that he was involved in two illegal duels?"

"Certainly, James and I have always been honest with one another."

"And did he tell you the grievance behind this unlawful violence?"

"He said they both involved the honor of young women." There, that should put another face on things.

"Honest, indeed. The first was with the brother of a girl whose virtue had been severely compromised by this James. He escaped with a rapier scar on his arm. The second, fought with pistols, left the husband – the _husband_, Isabella – of another woman grievously wounded. He has yet to fully recover."

Bella could not control the blood rushing to her face. "Are you certain this information is accurate?"

"These are military records," her father shouted, waving the papers in agitation. "Did it never once occur to you that this man could be a fortune hunter?"

"I . . . no . . . that is, there were other girls of his acquaintance with far greater fortunes than mine."

"Be that as it may, when a scoundrel has not a penny to his name, any income may seem worth pursuing. Even his soldier's pay reportedly went to pay gambling debts. Do you see how very close you came to ruining your own life by listening to romantic notions instead of your own good sense?"

The familiar room seemed to be whirling about. Never had her father been so angry with her, and with justification, it seemed. All the strength and certainty drained from her body, and she could not hold back the tears. Bella bent forward, weeping into her hands.

"There, there now." In an instant, the strident military man was gone, her doting father in his place. He came around the desk, gathering his precious daughter into his arms. "I wouldn't have you weep for all the world. I only meant to appeal to that fine mind I know you possess."

"No, you were right," she sobbed, glad to have his comforting arms around her. "I wasn't using my head at all. I promise never to be so foolish again."

"Well, there's no harm done," he crooned, patting her back. "Let's put it all behind us, shall we?"

Bella tried her best to do so in the following months, and indeed, romantic thoughts of James vanished as if they'd never existed. It had been like playing pretend when she was small, conjuring up a Prince Charming to dance with from a broomstick and a hat.

At least a broom was useful.

She endeavored to keep the moral of her lesson foremost in her mind. At the parties and balls she attended in Anandale and the nearby countryside, she looked on her admirers with more objective eyes, not allowing her heart to be the sole author of her assessments.

The challenge proved less difficult than she expected. Viewed objectively, most of the young men she met were acceptable but rather dull, their conversations almost interchangeable – compliments about her dress and manners, observations on the weather, local gossip.

There was nothing to stimulate her head nor her heart in most of them. Cpl. Black was sweet and attentive, but seemed still like a boy. Emmett McCarty, son of a prosperous landowner, seemed wholly taken up with hunting and agriculture, neither of which she found very exciting.

Mr. Newton, owner of the thriving new glove factory on the outskirts of town, was an amusing partner, though she doubted he thought seriously of anything beyond gloves.

What surprised her less than her inability to conjure up James' image at all, was how easily the specter of Edward Masen found its way into her consciousness and even her dreams. Their acquaintance had only spanned a few hours, every one of them contentious, yet he kept rudely invading her thoughts much as he had her compartment on the train.

In retrospect, he seemed rather handsome, though she recalled noting nothing to his credit at the time. Perhaps it was the variety of his expressions that kept him active in her memory. Smiling, disapproving, challenging, mocking, scrutinizing – all of them paraded past her mind's eye at the oddest times.

It was a bit baffling, but she blamed it on the habit of inventing new responses to some of the things he'd said to her, responses that would have left him spluttering for an answer with their wit and unassailable logic.

Most disturbing of all were the dreams in which she sometimes didn't dislike him at all. In the wake of these, she awoke strangely unsettled, but she would never breathe a word of this to anyone.

Wasn't she putting her all into earning her parents' trust again, rejecting her more fanciful notions in favor of rationality? What would they think, if they knew she dreamed of such a common and disagreeable person?

She doubled her efforts to help her mother with the parish poor, read only the most edifying of books and retained a cordial distance with the gentlemen who sought her company, careful not to lead them on.

Her behavior was exemplary, of which she was duly proud. Her parents greeted her new maturity with respect and a relaxing of the rules. She felt useful and content – or almost – for when she stopped to ponder her true feelings, she could not deny that boredom was among them. Each day was much the same as the last, with everything properly in its place.

One afternoon in early summer, Bella sat at the writing desk in the morning room, writing what she felt to be a most persuasive letter on behalf of the orphans in Africa, when Collie darted breathlessly into the room.

"There's a gentleman to see you, miss, at the kitchen door." Her pale cheeks were pink, her eyes wide with excitement.

"At the kitchen door?" Bella frowned. "He must be selling something. Let Mrs. Bainbridge deal with it." She turned back to her letter.

"But he asked for you in particular, and he's wonderful handsome."

"For me?" Perplexed, she rose and followed the housemaid down to the dark corridor that led to the kitchen. The door was open and someone crouched in the yard, amongst the chickens, ruffling the fur of their old dog, Marcus.

Sunlight struck a burnished gleam in his untamed hair, for he wore no cap. Her heart stumbled. She'd never seen him in daylight before.

"Miss Swan," he said, rising to face her. "I trust you are well."

"Mr. Masen, whatever are you doing here?"

He reached into his back pocket and brought out a folded hat. She hoped he wouldn't put it on, and in fact he stood fingering the limp object, the very picture of servitude.

If she thought he'd been ill-dressed before, this time he made no pretense to gentility, wearing merely a shirt of some rough homespun material, close-fitting trousers and dirty work boots. The simple clothes showed off his figure to great advantage – the broad shoulders and lean muscles, his long legs.

For a fleeting moment, she thought how sad it was that he would never wear a uniform or formal clothes, as those garments could hope for no finer a mannequin to display their elegant lines.

"I was meeting a gentleman in the village and thought I'd see if you had made good your escape."

"You make it sound as if I'm some sort of pet gnawing on the door of my cage," she said, the old irritation rising.

"No, it was you who made it sound that way, but I see you decided to stay."

Why must he always contradict her? "Yes, I did, so there's no danger of my father reclaiming your fee, if that's what worries you."

"Do I look worried?" He smiled at her. It was a presumptuous smile, bordering on arrogance, she thought. Why else would it feel almost like a physical assault?

"No, I suspect you're too pleased with yourself to spend much time worrying. You've seen me now. Your mission is accomplished, so I won't keep you any longer."

She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. For whatever reason, his presence made her come alive in a way she rather enjoyed. Perhaps it was his tendency to question and contradict, so much more exhilarating than the carefully structured exchanges she was used to.

"As you wish," he said, hardly appearing stricken by the rejection as he stuffed the hat back in his pocket. "But the truth is my train won't come for some time yet. I thought perhaps we could talk."

"Talk? About what?" Relief was mixed with trepidation. She could hardly invite him into the drawing room. Perhaps the kitchen, but the thought of sitting stiffly in the presence of the busy staff would be equally as unsuitable.

"Whatever you want," he said affably. "Perhaps we could take a short walk."

It seemed the only solution. Bella turned to find Collie lingering in the kitchen corridor, eavesdropping no doubt. How easily the girl's head was turned by a comely visitor. "Don't you have something to do, Collie?"

"Yes, miss." Collie dropped a feeble curtsey and darted into the kitchen, giggling.

Bella stepped down into the chicken yard. She'd forgotten how tall Masen was. "We could stroll under the trees there. It's far cooler."

"Yes, I imagine it would be, given the shade provided. It's been rather warm this summer, don't you think?"

Why did she always feel he was teasing her, even in the midst of the most innocuous conversation? "So am I to assume that the person you came here to meet is in need of a kidnapper for his wayward daughter?"

"I couldn't say." His lips puckered in what she took as an effort not to smile. "But as you're so good at keeping secrets, I will. This is in strictest confidence, you understand."

Against her own best instincts, Bella nodded.

Masen's voice fell to a near whisper, as they entered the leafy lane. "Victoria, the Princess Royal, is plotting to elope with a chimney sweep from Liverpool. The Prince Consort, not surprisingly, disapproves."

"Hmm," Bella said, unable to decide who she'd like to kick first – him or herself. "I shouldn't wonder since she's not yet 12 years old."

Masen only grinned.

"Other than sticking your nose into other people's business, I haven't the faintest idea what you do for a living, and clearly you don't intend to tell me."

"Is that a crime?"

"No, but robbery and murder are, and I doubt those responsible discuss what they do either."

"You're determined to think the worst of me, aren't you?" Masen tilted his head in that way she found so disarming.

She shrugged, as the branches closed above them, creating a tunnel of light and shadows on the path below. "I have only my scant experience to go on."

"Does that mean you regret not completing your marriage plans?"

Bella did not want to give him the satisfaction of an affirmative reply, but in her determination to be more trustworthy, deceit had no proper place. "It may have been for the best," she said cautiously.

She waited for the expected "I told you so," accompanied by a cocky grin, but it didn't come. All he said was, "I trust you and your parents have reconciled?"

"Yes. Oh, my parents were angry at first, especially my father. He's a former military man, and a bit sensitive about insubordination."

Masen nodded. "Let us hope he can continue his retirement in peace."

Bella stopped, looking anxiously up at him. "You refer to the Eastern Question? I believe war with Russia is inevitable, don't you?"

Masen's expressive brows rose in surprise. "You're familiar with the issues?"

She hated the blush she could feel stealing up her neck. Why should she be embarrassed for taking interest in the fate of her own country? Why, indeed, should any woman? But such subjects were studiously avoided in the presence of ladies.

"My father would have benefited greatly from having a son," she said, as they resumed their walk. "As it is, he has only me to talk to at home. My mother finds the whole subject of warfare tedious, but I read the books and articles he recommends, and we talk."

"To answer your question," Masen said, "yes, I do. With the Ottoman Empire disintegrating, I'm afraid most of Europe will be forced to fight, but you needn't fear that your father will see battle. Men like him are much more valuable as strategists."

"What makes you say that?" she said, surprised.

"His reputation is well known," Masen said and changed the subject. "You live in a very beautiful part of the country."

Unless she was very much mistaken, that was the second thing they had agreed on in the space of a minute, Bella realized. She was beginning to enjoy herself. "Yes, I love it here. Where do you live, Mr. Masen?"

"Nowhere, everywhere," he answered with a brisk laugh. "I travel a great deal, so home is generally a room here and there."

"It sounds a rather lonely existence."

"Perhaps. It's only seemed so recently. I suppose it's time I thought about a real home, marriage."

Bella made no comment. How did one of his social status go about looking for a wife, she wondered. Did the less fortunate attend dances and other social gatherings or were they too poor for such frivolities?

"And you, Miss Swan. Have you turned against marriage altogether or merely reconsidered your choice of husband?"

A quick look at his expression told her this was not meant as a subtle barb. He appeared curious, and yes, if truth be told, quite disturbingly handsome, despite his inability to shave himself properly.

"I suppose I shall marry eventually. My hope would be to find a true friend before considering his suitability as a partner in life."

"Very judicious," Masen said. "Would you care to sit down for a while?"

"Where?"

He nodded toward a fallen log on the other side of the stream that bordered their pathway. "Dare to make the crossing?"

"Of course." If he'd dared her to climb a tree, she would have attempted it, simply to prevent his arrogance from putting in another unwelcome appearance.

Scattered stones made the first part of their passage easy, but these disappeared as they neared the far side. Masen's long legs allowed him to gain the bank in one leap, where he waited, holding out his hand to assist her.

She had no choice but to take it and no words to describe the feelings that beset her when his larger hand enveloped hers. A warmth spread through her entire body that had nothing to do with the sunshine. Her heart seemed to stutter in her chest.

"Don't be afraid," Masen said, mistaking the reason for her hesitation. "I won't let you fall."

Bella made the leap, and he let go. She sat down gratefully on the sturdy tree trunk, wondering at the giddiness that had come out of nowhere.

Masen joined her, sitting close, for their perch was only a few feet in length. "Do you have a candidate in mind – as your friend and partner?" he asked.

"What? Oh, no. Not yet. The truth is, society does not make it easy to even judge compatibility. So many subjects are considered inappropriate for discussion. I sometimes feel I have the same dull conversations over and over again with different people."

"I can't imagine conversations with you ever being dull," Masen said with a smile.

She felt absurdly pleased with this remark, though it was probably no more than his effort to be polite. "It must be so much more simple for people in your . . . circle without all the rules that stifle true discourse."

"Oh, indeed. Fishmongers and barmaids are often so free with their speech that the attraction is instantaneous."

He was mocking her again, she was sure, but these must be the very women from whom he, as a working man, could expect to choose a bride.

"At least they're free to speak their minds. Men behave as if women have no brains, but it's only lack of education that prevents them from being just as capable of great thoughts and ideas and solutions to the world's problems."

"That will change," Masen said.

"Do you really think so?"

"I do. It may not be in our lifetime, but look at how much is changing already – men of modest beginnings using their ingenuity to build great factories, earning enough to send their own children to the best schools. Everything changes, Miss Swan."

"Even the position of women in society?"

"Even that. It's the way of mankind. What _can_ be done, eventually _will_ be done."

"That sounds a little frightening."

"It is frightening – and wonderful."

They sat in silence for some minutes, but Bella felt no obligation to fill it with chatter. A strange mixture of peace and exhilaration settled over her. She thought she wouldn't mind sitting here all day with him beside her, each lost in their own thoughts.

The whistle of a locomotive joined the birdsong in the forest, and he stood. "I must be getting back."

This time she was prepared when he took her hand, but the sensation was no less thrilling. She would have plenty of time to ponder what it meant when he was gone. That moment was coming soon, and she admitted to herself that she dreaded it. Whatever his shortcomings, Edward Masen simply made her life more interesting.

They were nearing the house when he spoke again. "By the way, who was that enchanting creature who greeted me?"

"Who?"

"The housemaid who conveyed my message. She's a very pretty girl."

"Oh," she said, suddenly flustered. "That was Collie – Colleen Dugan. Yes, she's very pretty – and sweet, if a bit headstrong."

"Sounds like my typical poison," he said, smiling to himself.

What did that mean? She felt herself going red again, this time with a kind of baseless anger. Really, her emotions seemed to have escaped her own control. It was no good to cultivate a rationale mind if some part of her still insisted on playing the childish fool.

"Can I ask you something?" Masen said, stopping where the trees met the lawn. His expression was quite serious. "It's about the next time I pass this way."

Bella left off scolding herself long enough to feel a twinge of delight. He would be back again. The strange, but decidedly exciting, condition she experienced in his presence was not going to end here and now. "What is it?"

"I wonder if I might have your permission to call on Miss Dugan, when next I'm in the neighborhood. Do you think she would be willing to walk out with me?"

She stared at him, speechless. So their pleasant stroll meant nothing to him. He preferred the company of a silly housemaid, whose parents were poor farmers.

"I don't pretend to know the mind of my servants, Mr. Masen," she said coldly, "nor do I concern myself with their social calendars. You will have to pursue that avenue yourself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've frittered away enough time today."

She didn't wait for his reply, hurrying – almost running – for the kitchen door. In the corridor, she met Collie again. The girl was fidgeting with excitement.

"Oh, miss, such a beautiful gentleman! Did you have a nice walk?"

"He's not a gentleman!" Bella fairly shouted, fighting tears of frustration. "And would you please just shut up!"

Upstairs, where they'd been watching her return from the old nursery window, Colonel and Mrs. Swan cringed in unison as a door slammed nearby.

"Well, that must have ended badly," Charles noted.

"But didn't they look well, stepping out together?" his wife enthused. "And they were definitely in the woods quite long enough for something of interest to transpire. Such bad form ending it in a tantrum."

"You mustn't expect this to go smoothly, my dear, not with our daughter involved, but you can count on Edward to stay the course. I studied him carefully at the pub, and I'd swear the boy is smitten. For all his polite asking my permission to see her, I got the distinct impression he has a great deal more in mind, and I couldn't be more pleased."

"You never said how handsome he was," his wife scolded, "but oh my, those clothes! Wouldn't it be better if he presented himself as he really is instead of this ridiculous charade."

"It's not a charade," Charles said. "Those are his working clothes. Something about ferreting out a gang of pickpockets who've been victimizing passengers. Last week he was in London, investigating a shady group of investors at their men's club. I'm sure his wardrobe would have met with your approval then."

"Well, it seems such a convoluted way to go about a courtship," his wife sighed, impatiently.

"A necessity, I'm afraid, given that Isabella knows him as a hired thug who thwarted her plans and made her look a fool. She needs time to . . . absorb his better qualities and admit to herself that she wants to see him again." Charles patted his wife's hand. "Edward's better at these things than old married people like us, my dear. We must be patient."

Patience was in short supply around the Swan household as the summer wore on. Bella, indeed, seemed to have no patience with herself, going about the house mumbling to the thin air.

Her thoughts ricocheted between ruing the day she'd ever crossed paths with Edward Masen and bizarre fantasies that saw her mistress of a crude cottage, where she waited happily for his arrival every night, helping him off with his boots, creating delicious meals out of a few poor ingredients – all for his pleasure.

Her parents seemed oblivious to the fact that she'd gone quite mad, mistaking her dutiful obedience for acceptance of her lot in life, when inwardly everything felt so wrong.

Each time there was a commotion in the kitchen yard, she feared that he had returned, ignoring the fact that she lived here too, come to squire Collie to some rustic event whose nature she shuddered to imagine.

It was a relief when it came time to return to London for the season, for it meant there was no chance he'd turn up and throw her emotions into chaos again. Surely, somewhere in the excitement of the great city there was a man with more wit and appeal than a common laborer. She was determined to find him.

Accordingly, she stood patiently for the endless fittings required to send a young lady of quality off into society. The result was a bevy of lovely gowns that couldn't help but attract the eye of the right kind of man.

Her favorite, a midnight blue silk that looked almost purple in certain lights, was her choice for the ball that had her parents in high spirits.

"Viscount Henley is an old friend," her father explained, "quite wealthy and on his way to an earldom, if rumor can be trusted. I advise you to look your best tonight. You never know what might happen."

Bella did a mental eye roll. Her parents were getting more childish as she matured, if they seriously thought she might marry into the peerage. She herself harbored no ambitions in that direction, believing that circle of society to be even more stifling than the one they currently occupied.

Still, she was pleased with her appearance as she checked the looking glass. Her hair was glossy, her complexion clear. Her dress was sure to incite envy in many of the girls present.

The night was mild, as they set out in their best carriage for Belgrave Square. Sitting across from her parents, as they bounced over the cobbled streets, Bella noted that they seemed uncharacteristically animated.

Perhaps it was only the aristocratic aura of their host or because this was the first major party of the season that they appeared so. Generally, they preferred, much as she did, the quieter pursuits of the countryside.

It was quite the most impressive ballroom she had ever entered. Lights shown everywhere, reflected in the mirrored walls, flowers dipped gracefully from vases and sconces throughout the long room. Gowns shown like jewels everywhere she looked, but none, she thought, more fine than her own.

The viscount proved to be exactly as she expected – a stoutish man in his sixties with sparse hair but lovely manners – who complimented her parents lavishly on producing such a lovely daughter.

The surprise was his equally plump wife, who exclaimed over Bella's beauty and then spirited her mother off to reunite with friends. So, that wasn't the source of her parent's good humor. The viscount was not in the market for a bride.

Perhaps the idea was simply that he surrounded himself with the sort of people that would not prove an embarrassment if they came to call.

"So good to have you here, old friend," Henley was saying as he patted her father's shoulder. "Cigars in the library at ten, what?"

Bella recognized a few young ladies of her acquaintance, but was in no hurry to bury herself in gossip. Instead, her gaze was drawn to a cadre of fashionable young men at the other end of the room. My, they looked wonderful in their formal clothes.

One in particular garnered her attention. His back was turned, but she could see that he was slim, taller than the others, easily the most striking figure among London's elite. With a pang, she realized why she had singled him out.

He had much the same physique as Edward Masen. This is the kind of figure Masen could have cut had he been born under more fortunate circumstances.

The thought made her sad and then angry, as she found herself unable to stop thinking about him even in this glittery crowd. Perhaps it was true that one could feel another's intense gaze, for he turned slightly glancing to his left.

That profile!

The handsome nose, the determined jaw. Bella felt the blood draining to her toes. The rest of the room and its inhabitants faded into a wavy frame about the portrait that held her spellbound. He looked from the corner of his eye and caught her staring at him.

Slowly a smile spread across the face that turned toward her. A clean shaven face. An unforgettable face.

It had to be him. She'd held his visage captive behind her dreaming eyelids for months now. There was no mistake. But what was this – some elaborate joke – that had him posing as a gentleman?

She could make no sense of it, nor break her gaze from his. As he walked slowly toward her, she knew without question that this was not a charade. No one could move like that, with such unconscious elegance, unless it was a lifelong habit.

He closed the distance between them, and she found herself looking at the top of his perfectly groomed hair, lustrous and mysteriously tamed, as he bowed. He brought her hand to his lips, all the while regarding her under those distinctive brows she knew so well.

"Miss Swan," he said simply.

She fought with no success to find her voice, as he turned to her father who greeted him with a firm handshake.

"Colonel Swan, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you here tonight."

"Yes, Edward my boy, I imagine you are," he chuckled, clapping him on the back.

Bella continued to gape at the two of them.

"I've been looking forward to meeting Mrs. Swan," Masen was saying.

"Not half as much as she's been looking forward to meeting you, believe me. She's gone off with the viscountess, but as soon as she spots us, she'll be here with bells on."

Oh, there was some sort of joke here all right, Bella thought, as her brain gradually emerged from its fog, some Machiavellian plot that everyone had been in on except her.

She'd find out what it was, and when she did, Masen was going to regret every devious thing he'd ever done to her. If he'd thought she was combative before, he better prepare himself for the full brunt of her wrath, because she might just have to borrow from the fishmongers' vocabulary to get her point across.

"If you'll excuse me," he was saying, "I would very much like to ask your daughter to dance."

Bella was on the verge of refusing. She was considering unleashing her tirade – even before anyone offered an explanation – right here in front of half of London, and beneath it all she was trying to understand that it was all right.

Everything was all right.

But his hand was on her waist, guiding her gently out onto the floor. She was losing herself in his eyes and realizing that he felt exactly as she did.

The rest could wait.

For the moment there was nothing she wanted more in all the world than to dance.


End file.
